Closure Or Something Like It
by wintergenisis
Summary: One drunken night leads to complications in the relationship between Arthur and Francis. Can they rectify their mistakes from the past? Will they be able to find love in each other ever again? Top England / interchangable couple. Human names used.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N:_**

 ** _1)_ Well, this is my venture into fanfiction after over a year of not writing _anything_. This is a 3 chapter fic. Everything is plotted out, and I have already begun writing chapter two. I intend to post it this coming Sunday (1/23) EST.**

 _ **2)**_ **This will be gone over again, but I know it's riddled with mistakes so please let me know what there is here.**

 _ **3)**_ **My Arthur is a wreck. A fucking wreck. No matter the fic or the universe he is an absolute wreck. Please forgive us both.**

 _ **4)**_ **Playlist for writing the chapter included _Blackheart_ by Two Steps From Hell, _Star Sky_ by Two Steps from Hell, _Little Lion Man_ by Mumford and Sons, _Broken Crown_ by Mumford and Sons, _Don't Trust Me_ by 30H!3, _Hopeless Wanderer_ by Mumford and Sons**

 **TW: drunk sex, addiction, general slurs, slight violence, hints at "incest" (in quotes because I don't see it like that, and I don't see any of the countries being related by blood)**

* * *

 _You were never much for the arts, but all the same, you think it rather like a dance. A dangerous dance of whirling blades, raging fists and stray bullets._

 _You'd never say so to anyone else, but you think them both beautiful in their own way._

 _Suddenly the boat tips a bit too far; your crew and much of the invading crew are thrown over to port side. Not so with the captains: Arthur jumps from the fighting top on the foremast, catching hold of a piece of rigging down to the mizzenmast. The French pirate meets him, step for step, on the crow's nest, for a moment gaining the advantage of height._

 _You are interrupted from watching momentarily by an aggressor to your right. You slice him down without thought. It is not for lack of skill that you are distracted by the captains: as the quartermaster, you can_ afford _a little distraction, you think._

 _The frog suddenly lands hard on his back toward the aft of the spar deck. People of both crews scatter like rats found amongst cargo, but you lean in for a closer look. Not too close, though; you wouldn't wish to be caught in the crossfire._

 _A shiver runs through you when you see the look the frog's eyes. Not for the first time, you think that he cannot be human. The same goes for your own illustrious captain, who lands as delicately as a cat on the rails of the quarterdeck. His eyes burn like Saint Elmo's Fire as he stares his opponent down, a vicious grin appearing on his visage in a harsh, toothy gash._

 _Everyone believes he aims to kill. Those who have been around for a while (but not quite as long as you) know that these two are arch enemies, and have been performing such dances for longer than anyone knows. But_ you _—you think you know better. You have been with your captain for many turns of the tide, longer than anyone on your crew. And you are starting to think that maybe, just_ maybe _, those near misses of the dagger are purposeful. Those bullets erring by a hair's breadth might not be missing their target at all, if their aim is true._

 _You think that perhaps these two inhuman beings, these men who are godlike in their speed, strength and their ferocity, would be nothing without each other. You suspect that this dance they do means much more to either of them than they would ever dare tell._

It wasn't often that so many of them could gather recreationally like this. Arthur had been told that Alisdair and Grainne wanted to come, but couldn't make it. Francis had kept assuring him over and over, at least in the beginning, that they would be there soon. The Brit didn't understand why he bothered with the pretense. If they weren't coming, they weren't coming; they rarely travelled with Arthur to conferences anyway.

Besides, he knew where he stood with his _so-called family_. He didn't understand why they kept insisting on calling each other family, either. There was nothing really tying them together, certainly not blood. Arthur had angrily sucked on his lip piercing and glared at Francis every time he brought it up. It was easier to deal with being the hated, odd black sheep out when people didn't point it out.

They'd just had a meeting in Brussels, and decided to go drinking at a popular pub by Laura's recommendation. Arthur had noticed with little to no sentiment that Laura had not spoken directly to him for the duration of the meeting of Nations.

… Probably still a bit irritated about that whole Brexit thing. Well, she'd get over it. She certainly found her voice when he got her into bed last month. The memory gave him satisfaction—the thought of her deliciously rounded, soft body squirming under his, so sensitive and so perfectly responsive to his touches and his tongue. He licked his lips, unconsciously poking at his lip ring a bit more. His dress pants were beginning to get slightly uncomfortable, but even though he was sitting next to Alfred he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

The next round of drinks was on Gilbert, and for the life of him, Arthur couldn't figure out where all of that man's money came from. He was, technically speaking, a "retired" Nation (it wasn't publicized exactly, but he couldn't bear to think of the Prussian how others sometimes did: on the decline, not a Nation, a ghost of the past) but the fact was, it kept coming. Many secretly thought that perhaps Ludwig gave him an allowance of sorts. Arthur disagreed. Gilbert had far too much money for a simple allowance, even if the amount given was generous.

Regardless of where it came from, Arthur had never been one to reject more alcohol and gleefully (read: purposefully) ignored Francis's disapproving glare. He'd only become so interested in Arthur's drinking habits after he dumped the man.

Alfred laughed heartily at something the Brit didn't catch – laughed right in his ear, in fact. He didn't even wince, too used to the obnoxious American to get annoying with just that. He sighed wearily nonetheless and brought a hand up, fingers playing in one of his gauges as though that could assuage the ringing in his ears.

"Dude that's so gross! Don't touch it!" Alfred swatted his hand away, and Arthur turned to glower at him slowly, his expression one of extreme disdain and the flickering embers of anger. He looked at Alfred's hand, then back at the boy.

"Fuck. Off."

"Oh, leave the boy alone." Francis tossed a pretzel bite at Arthur. The Brit growled, and suddenly he was being held down by arms of steel.

"Stop it, Artie." Alfred admonished. Matthew could be just barely overheard through the din of the pub, chiding his papa about throwing food.

Ludwig, to everyone's surprise, gave a big belly laugh, his cheeks flushing lightly and his hair perfectly mussed, making him appear much too sexed up for Arthur's eyes. He licked his lips, only realizing he was staring when the German's smooth, deep voice hit him like a ton of bricks.

"This is why we can't have nice things!" The German exclaimed, for once smiling warmly at his colleagues. Such a disarming thing. Such an innocent thing. Arthur wanted to break him.

He'd had the chance to break him… Why hadn't he just fucked him when they were occupying Berlin? He couldn't remember. He absolutely could not come up with any good reason why he had not fucked this man yet.

Suddenly movement to the side of Ludwig brought Arthur's attention away from the blond. He realized then that he'd nearly gone blind to all else… and someone had noticed. Gilbert was running gentle fingers through his brother's hair and glaring murderously at Arthur.

"I think it's about time that we head out."

"But," Ludwig glanced over, surprised. "I'm not _that_ drunk, you _know_ that!" It was so strange to see him like this, from stern and authoritative to almost childish.

The albino rubbed his back soothingly. "I know, and I never said you were. We're leaving anyway. Do you understand?" His tone was gentle, but brooked no argument. "I realize you don't like it, and I'm sorry. But you know I have my reasons. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

Arthur watched quietly as they left, and noticed Francis doing the same. He had suspicions about the sort of relationship they had. But it might be better to leave those unspoken, out of respect for Gilbert if nothing else.

"I'm surprised that Arthur has lasted as long as he has." Francis wheedled, leaning in close over the table. "I remember when our little black sheep would pass out from one flagon of strong mead."

Matthew audibly slammed his head on the table and Alfred groaned much too loudly. Arthur's ears were ringing again.

"You guys are so _old_!"

"You piece of shit, that was my first time drinking mead!" Arthur flung back, his words hardly slurring as much as he thought they should by now.

"And you were the cutest little thing, weren't you?" The Frenchman jeered. "Such a _sweet_ boy. What the hell happened?" It was a joke, but it slammed into Arthur like a fist. It was the guilt, the weight of unnumbered sins suddenly sitting like lead in his chest that suddenly made this all too real. It didn't feel like it was just banter, anymore.

He stood abruptly, ignoring the looks of confusion on his companions' faces, and staggered to the door, already pulling out one of his favored clove cigarettes. Shit. He'd forgotten his coat in the pub. Mentally shrugging, he steeled himself to the biting wind outside and lit up, shielding his cigarette from the gales with a practiced hand.

 _What happened?_

He leaned against the building and took a long, deep drag, before exhaling and magicking his smoke into shapes. A ship, a sword, a gun.

"They can take the savage out of the ocean, but they can't take the ocean out of the savage."

It wasn't a particularly eloquent statement, and Arthur figured that was good enough for when he spun around and socked the Frenchman in the jaw. He stumbled back, a look of shock briefly crossing his face before his visage was blocked. Suddenly Arthur had some sort of fabric tossed over his face, and though he scrambled to remove it he was on the ground in less than a second.

He threw off the offending fabric, growling low in his throat, "That was low, even for you."

"I bring your coat out for you and you punch me in the face?" Francis delivered Arthur a strong kick in the chest, before planting it firmly against his sternum. "That's not very nice."

For a moment, Arthur pretended to struggle underneath Francis's very fashionable foot, causing a satisfied smile to appear on the other's face. It dropped immediately, however, when Arthur's legs came up and grabbed Francis by the hips, twisting and forcing him to lose his balance. In a flash it was Arthur standing and Francis on the ground. He quickly backed up a few paces, giving his opponent room.

It was the dance they'd always done, altered now perhaps without guns or boats—but the same nevertheless.

"I don't need a coat if this is what we're going to be doing." He purred the words in the low, sexy way he knew Francis liked, and caught his eyes flicking up and down Arthur's body at the obvious double entendre. For a moment Arthur regretted the suit he still wore – it was quite fitted and sharp on him, but he felt his street clothes would not only be better suited for this activity but would give Francis a bit more to look at.

It was just the barest pause, and Francis was launching himself at Arthur.

"You insufferable—"

"—arrogant and lazy—"

"—a hopeless, drug addicted—"

"—gluttonous fool—"

"—wouldn't know good food if it sank down on your dick—"

"You know you fucking want to—"

"Slut."

Arthur jumped back, sporting a nice shiner and a bleeding lip and gums where his labret smashed into his mouth. Francis was a bit worse for wear, the Brit was pleased to note. That last insult hit close to home, though, and Arthur wasn't eager to reengage after that.

"You know I'm right." Francis murmured darkly, and Arthur had to make a conscious effort not to take a step back. There were few times when Francis wore that expression, something so sinister and dangerous that for a moment Arthur could believe that this man in front of him was one of Rome's descendants. But it wasn't that expression that made Arthur's chest give an uncomfortable squeeze. It was what he knew Francis to be thinking.

"Why are you bringing this up now?" It was practically a whisper, the whipping wind nearly overcoming Arthur's voice.

Francis appeared suddenly very much as a startled rabbit, and Arthur was afraid he knew exactly what the man was about to say. He felt drawn to him, in that moment, and didn't even feel himself stepping forward. He hardly noticed until he was right in front of him, clearly seeing the way his flesh reddened with cold and drink, all too vividly seeing the pale blond eyelashes and the barely perceptible smile lines framing plump, smooth lips. He wondered idly if Francis would be bothered by his own chapped lips.

"I don't know." It was an obvious lie, and it came out in the quietest whoosh of air, Arthur wouldn't have been able to hear it otherwise.

It started misting, then, something that so light though sent a fog up into the air. Francis looked like a pale, golden wraith—something otherworldly—and Arthur felt almost rebuked for thinking of him so sexually. How dare he think himself worthy to touch such an ethereal being?

Arthur was never one to pay mind to such thoughts—at least not in the moment—and reached up ever so slowly, as though Francis might take flight, or perhaps even disappear into the night like a dream, affirming to Arthur that this strange moment had never happened at all.

 _He shouldn't do this._

His hand cupped Francis's cheek so gently, and he barely had time to wonder how such calloused hands felt against such a soft face before he felt a jolt of electricity run through him. Francis placed a hand over top of Arthur's, and gave him such an expressive look, filled with such sadness it was almost alarming.

Arthur didn't want to give thought to these rather deep emotions, so he kissed him. It was unexpectedly electrifying, and he acted by deepening the kiss almost immediately. Francis issued this soft, surprised little sound, something almost inaudible and nearly drowned out by the wind—and the slightly startling wolf whistle off to the side. Francis broke away to glare and Arthur flipped them off – it was only Alfred.

Wait. _Shit._

Arthur risked a glance at Francis, who seemed unconcerned. Rather, his expression was all too warm; simply too welcoming and inviting. Arthur decided after perhaps half a second that he couldn't care less if Alfred knew what was going on (not that Arthur himself knew what was going on), and he instead kissed Francis again, drawing him close. It was a feeling unlike anything he'd experienced, at least not lately, and he shivered – it was like coming home. He never wanted to part from this man, never again. Unfortunately, they did have to breathe with these wretched, human-like bodies, so when they pulled apart they were panting heavily. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, willing to pretend that the wetness he felt on Francis's cheeks, on his lips, was from the heavy mist hanging in the air, as though weighed down by something. Francis's forehead thunked against Arthur's.

"You still taste the same. Alcohol and cigarettes." A pause. "And rain."

Arthur snorted, not willing to speak for fear of antagonizing Francis. Just now, that was perhaps the last thing he wanted to do.

"Would you like to take shelter with me from this horribly inclement weather?"

This time, Arthur did speak. "You're still awful at pickup lines when you're drunk." A small smile crept onto his face.

Francis, instead of rising to the bait, merely detached himself from Arthur and tugged on his hand. "My hotel is this way. You'll come with me." It wasn't a question, and Arthur wasn't going to say no.

Instead, he wound his arm around the Frenchman's waist, leaning heavily into him. He couldn't allow himself to think of what they were doing, what this could mean. He couldn't let the weight in his chest grow bigger. For all he knew this meant nothing, and was simply another of his own drunken forays. How much would he even remember tomorrow?

Francis, oblivious for once to everything around him, laughed as it started to rain harder and pulled Arthur along. He felt his heart seize. He would do anything to be the cause of that laughter, so sincere and light.

"Arthur," he wheezed, "You forgot your coat again!"

Hmm. So he had.

He shoved his hand into Francis's coat pocket. "I think I'll be alright." He leaned in close, and when his lips brushed against Franicis's ear, he was satisfied to feel the man shiver. "Once I'm inside you, I think I'll be quite warm."

Francis halted immediately, pulling Arthur into another kiss, this one much more heated than the others.

"Good." He hissed, before continuing to utterly ravage Arthur's mouth with his tongue. Arthur pushed back, slamming him against some dark, nameless building and Francis moaned into his mouth, clutching desperately wherever he could and settling finally on Arthur's ass.

"You have no ass."

Arthur irritably bit the Frenchman's lip. "I do so have an ass!"

Francis giggled, and the sound was slightly disconcerting to Arthur. Was Francis truly that far gone? "Not that I remember." Was the sly reply, and Arthur gave a tetchy growl into Francis's mouth as he kissed him again.

As the rain continued pelting harder, Arthur remembered that they were supposed to be attempting to _escape_ it. With not inconsiderable difficulty, he pulled away from Francis and took his hand again.

"Come." He insisted, before halting and causing Francis to run into his shoulder. "I don't…" He started giggling himself, a ridiculous sound to his own ears. "I don't know where we're going."

Francis joined in on the laughter himself, and laughed, and laughed and _laughed_. His mirth was so great that he stumbled; Arthur tried to catch him, but still being quite inebriated himself, they both fell into the damp, cold asphalt. Arthur panted and wheezed, staring up into the black sky. He couldn't see the stars for the streetlights, and suddenly found it inexplicably hilarious that he should have black above him _and_ below him. There was black all around them, swallowing them up, gulping them down into a vast, inescapable, impenetrable darkness. He snorted loudly _. How morbid._

It was a good while before they were both able to calm down sufficiently enough to stand, and both almost toppled again when the world swayed violently around Arthur.

"Careful." Francis grabbed him, and rather than catching him, fell back with him against a wall. He still had the sparkle of tears in his eyes from his laughter; that, and the expression of fondness he gave the Brit was… He felt as though Francis kept attacking him, kept punching the air out of him… only, in a _good_ way. He couldn't handle this man. He couldn't do this. He didn't deserve to be looked at like this… Never again.

He cupped Francis's face, his fingers nearly numb from cold, and kissed him deeply, _slowly_. The Frenchman released a surprised grunt, but to Arthur's satisfaction returned the kiss with fervor. His fingers crept into Francis's sodden hair as he deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue along his lower lip. With a sigh, Francis allowed Arthur's tongue entrance, and pulled him closer, digging his fingers into Arthur's shoulders so hard that he was sure there would be bruises.

"Hotel." Arthur gasped, jerking away from Francis's lips momentarily. "Where is it?"

Francis grabbed his hand and tugged, jerking him just a bit too hard and nearly making him fall again. "This way. Come on."

"Hurry. What time is it?"

"Two."

Arthur laughed, stumbling as quickly as he could behind Francis. "Anything tomorrow?"

Francis shook his head – or, he might have, Arthur wasn't quite sure. Everything was spinning. "No. Most of us are… I think… going home?" Francis's speech was slurred. Arthur was heartened to know the alcohol had hit Francis, as well.

Not that he couldn't drink Francis under the table.

"Here." Francis pointed up to a tall building, and suddenly a curious urge came over him, and he patted his pockets for his wallet. It was gone. And he laughed.

"Shite." He managed through a more obnoxious guffaw.

"What?"

"Nothing." He huffed, this one sound just a bit more sober, more serious than the rest. He would figure it out when he was sober. Speaking of…

"Alcohol?"

"Huh?"

"Ye have it in the room?"

"Yes…" Francis gave him a fleeting, but disdainful glance. "You're not drinking more before we fuck, are you?"

As they arrived in the lobby, Arthur gave it no consideration when the receptionist gave them a sharp look.

The elevator opened, and Arthur shoved Francis into it, pressing him against the wall and kissing him. Moments later, they both realized that they had yet to press the floor button. Arthur let Francis go long enough for that, before reaching around him from behind and sticking his hand directly down his pants. The sudden action elicited a choking sound from Francis, before he pressed back into Arthur's body. He rubbed his ass against the front of Arthur's pants, and if the Brit hadn't been fully hard before, he was now for a certainty. He released a long, slow breath, pressing against Francis's back and licking the shell of his ear, lightly nipping it. His hand worked slowly but surely on the other's cock, drawing it to full attention. He smirked, listening to Francis's panting.

"Arthur…" Francis all but moaned. "The – it's going to open soon… _Stop._ "

Arthur licked a long stripe up Francis's nape before removing himself totally from Francis. For a moment, the Frenchman just stood there, appearing startled and a bit lost at Arthur's immediate reaction. He just wanted to kiss him again, to hurry and bury his dick deep inside him before he lost his nerve, before the reality of the situation hit him too hard.

He knew it was. He wasn't so far gone that all reason had left him. Just far enough that he didn't quite care anymore. _That_ was why he needed the alcohol. He was fucking up yet again. He'd regret this in the morning. He needed more alcohol to make sure that he'd go through with this.

Never mind the fact that he still had deep-seated feelings for Francis… Even after all these years, even after the man left him.

That drink sounded really good right about now.

Luckily, the door to the elevator opened up and deposited them on… some floor, Arthur hadn't been paying attention. They stumbled out, and it wasn't until Francis unlocked the door with his keycard that Arthur realized they were in an extremely nice suite. It was quite lovely, but Arthur was headed straight for the liquor, ripping off clothing along the way. First his suit jacket, then his tie, his belt and his socks. He grabbed cheap vodka out of the refrigerator and chugged it as he unbuttoned the first few buttons of his dress shirt. He was stopped by another pair of hands, though, and when Arthur dragged his lips away from the bottle – vodka wasn't his first choice anyway – he found Francis in front of him, totally naked with a seductive smirk.

"Don't drink it all." He cautioned. "You're not allowed to get whiskey dick when you're about to fuck me."

Arthur grinned, setting the vodka down. He missed, though, and the bottle crashed to the ground, the bottle shattering and the contents splattering all over the floor. Neither man paid it any heed, and the Brit was on Francis with a near frantic groan. The kiss tasted bitter, like blood.

Francis, graceful even in his inebriation, swiftly aided Arthur in his removal of pants and underwear. Rather than moving to the bed, however, Arthur saw Francis being lifted and shoved against a set of drawers as though experiencing it through a fog, as if it wasn't himself doing it.

"Arthur," He panted urgently, "I—You have— _lube_!"

Arthur cursed a blue streak. But of course, he had plenty of lube on hand for just such an occasion. His pants were just beside him, and it was in the pocket, _just in case_.

"Here." He squirted some into his hand and pressed back up against Francis, sliding his mouth against the other's. With only slight clumsiness of movement, he grasped both of their cocks and began to pump them together. On some level, he knew that he had to _try_. This was _Francis_ and he _had_ to try to make him feel good. Because he knew he was wronging Francis yet again, and the Frenchman deserved so much better than a drunk lay.

He would do what he could for the man…

When he looked into Francis's amethyst eyes, they dredged up other feelings within him—feelings of family, of acceptance, of nostalgia and happiness; feelings of cold dread, of terror, of betrayal, of hatred—

— _Of drowning._

Arthur stomped those emotions – _memories_ – out, and kissed Francis brutally. His thumb pressed down lightly into Francis's urethra, causing the Frenchman to emit a strangled moan. His other hand dragged through his hair, slowly and gently, a soft caress, to cup the side of his neck. Francis stilled, a barely perceptible stiffen, but it was there. Arthur hardly noticed however, and even if he did he didn't care. It was to be expected. His hand continued its downward journey, to Francis's solid, broad chest, trailing through thick, sandy hair, downward to his firm stomach and finally reaching its goal between Francis's legs. He pulled away slightly to watch Francis's expression better as Arthur's index finger dragged up the other's taint to swirl around his puckered hole. Francis gasped and gave a desperate moan, his mien the picture of anticipation and need. He bucked his hips as well as he could in his position, and Arthur felt his lips twitch upward.

"Not so fast, frog." He slurred. "Hold very still, or ye won't be gettin' anything from me."

"You think I'm content with being belly up at your mercy?" he sneered, whipping himself away with a sharp grin. His voice was rough slurred, but his eyes were deceptively clear as he staggered backward over to the bed, never breaking in their gaze.

"If ye think it matters to me who's on the bottom," Arthur replied, grabbing another bottle of alcohol and stalking forward, "you're mistaken." His movements were smooth and graceful now, compared to before—predatory—but then, he had experience doing much while intoxicated. He'd spent most of his life drunk.

"Ah?" Francis took another step back, eyeing the alcohol in Arthur's hand with a growing expression of disgust.

"Aye, I _like_ fucking you, though. Do you know why?" He took a deep swig of the drink, not even feeling it as it slid down his throat. His eyes bore through Francis's like acid. "I like taking you apart. I like it when _I'm_ the one making _you_ scream."

It was barely a whisper, but Francis heard, and Arthur barely dodged a swift and well-aimed uppercut. They both knew when it came right down to it, Arthur would win in a fight every time. He had always been faster, and now he was stronger (though these days his strength might be debatable). But old habits were hard to break. And some, like this one, were comforting. It meant _some_ things hadn't changed.

"Stop being so bitchy and just let me fuck you!" Arthur finally growled after getting cuffed rather roughly in the back of the head. He almost regretted his words when Francis froze, and flashed what he thought was an expression of hurt. But it was probably just his imagination. Or the alcohol. Or both.

He dragged Francis roughly by the hair to the head of the bed, and though he had tears in his eyes he was panting and rutting with his cock against the sheets as soon as Arthur let go.

"Slut." Arthur soothingly combed a hand over his scalp. He inhaled the musky scent of the Frenchman, the same scent after all these years, and ground his hips into Francis's ass. The moan turned into a yelp when Arthur bit into his shoulder.

Francis loved pain. He felt it was a great perversion, not a sin but something like it, something that took away from the essence of the purity of sex, how it was "supposed" to be. Arthur said bollocks to that and took great joy in riling Francis up in this manner.

The Brit sat up on his knees and began his ponderous project of opening Francis up. Even with lube it was still difficult, and Francis offered a similar opinion with his grunts of discomfort as he worked him open. Arthur tried to be patient, he really did.

Francis wasn't a slut. Not really. Not like people thought he was. So this _was_ difficult; he was so _tight_. Arthur relished the idea that Francis hadn't had anyone back here for a good while. It was a nicer lie though, to tell himself that there had been no one since him, all those years ago.

After the third finger, Francis finally swatted back at him and scolded him for taking too long.

"Francis." Arthur's voice was metal grinding against metal, and Francis turned to regard him slowly, his effort in remaining steady showing quite obviously. "I would see your face."

The Frenchman gave a wry smile; there was something almost painful about it. "It's unlike you to _pretend_ to be romantic."

Arthur wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to say. There was nothing Arthur wanted more than to see Francis's beautiful expressions as he fucked him. Everything about him was too good, too perfect, his body and his eyes and voice and face – and Arthur wanted to watch as he was sundered beneath him.

Arthur threw one of Francis's legs over his shoulders and began a steady entrance, neither slow nor gentle, but _sure_. He caught a groan of pain on Francis's lips with a kiss.

"Spare me your gentleness, you bastard." He hissed, forcing a look that was more a sneer than grin. "Get to the _good_ part, already."

Arthur responded with a harsh bite, the lip swelling almost immediately. "Don't tell me what to do." Arthur did, however, do as he was told, and Francis grunted a laugh even as he closed his eyes in pain, feeling the Brit's cock slide out of him.

Arthur snapped his hips, slamming himself back inside.

"Fuck!" Arthur wasn't sure who said it.

The rest of the night was a blur. By the time they were both finished, Arthur had the sense to thank the gods he _had_ brought them both to orgasm, and hadn't thrown up on either of them. But he must have puked at some point, because he found vomit smeared on his arm when he woke up in the wee hours of the morning. From his positioning on the floor where he _sort of_ faced the balcony… he'd probably thrown up over the balcony. Or something. Not that it mattered. He stumbled around in the black of the room, picking up his clothes. He left as quickly and quietly as he possibly could.

 _You're staring down the mangy crew of the Spaniard when it happens. A loud crash echoes from the captain's quarters. You don't dare move, but you definitely tense up. You are under strict orders not to enter under any circumstances… but the Spanish dog is in there with your captain and you do not trust Carriedo as far as you can throw his ship._

 _Hours pass, and the moon rises onto the sea. Another ship has moored portside next to Arthur's, and you don't like it. None of you do, you can tell; none of you like being penned in. These two have worked together before to Arthur's ire, and you don't doubt they'd do the same now, even at a moment's notice._

 _The Frenchman, Captain Bonnefoy, ever your captain's bane (but something of a fascination, if you've been reading into it correctly) boards the ship like he owns it. He and two of his men are the only ones. This is no threat, so no one moves. Only you, in your captain's stead, come forward._

" _I'd ask ye to leave; 'tis bad luck to have women and their dainty hair aboard a ship." You call, "But I'd be bettin' the cap'n'd be takin' exception to my kickin' ye off. So what do ye want, frog?" You assume there must be a reason for his seeking the ship out. After all, he's like Carriedo and your captain – different._

" _I must see your captain. It is an important matter." And judging by the curt tone and grave expression, it really must be._

 _You knock on the door to the captain's quarters and you hear a loud thud, like something or someone falling, then a muffled curse._

" _Thought I damn well told ye teh leave well alone!" Came Arthur's coarse rebuff through the door._

" _Yessir, ye did, but see, there's a bit of a situation –"_

 _The door swings open. Arthur is stark naked and furious. Behind him, his quarters are a mess, and Carriedo is lounging equally nude against the headboard. At first, all your captain can see is you, but then he sees Bonnefoy behind you, and he goes from furious to terrified in the blink of an eye. For once, you think, he looks like a sixteen-year-old boy. His expression tells you that he may have just made the worst mistake of his life._

 _You hear the Frenchie's quick, sure steps behind you and you're shoved aside so that he's got a clear shot of your captain's face. He punches so hard that Arthur's head is slammed into the doorframe. Without missing a beat, he glances over at the Spaniard, his face an unreadable mask._

" _Have you even brought it up, yet?"_

" _Uh… We've been busy." Carriedo has the grace to appear abashed, but he can't manage to work up a blush, and doesn't bother to hide the evidence of their coupling._

 _Bonnefoy gives a brisk nod at that, and spins around on his heel. He continues speaking as he heads back to his ship. "Arthur, you're expected in the war room of Versailles in two months' time." His tone is all business, betraying nothing. "We're to discuss certain things with our Prussian neighbor, and Gilbert will want to hear about how it was fighting alongside Roderich and Ms. Hedervary. We know you've already compiled plenty of information, but anymore you can give, personal, or otherwise, would be appreciated."_

 _Arthur stares after him, stock still and in spite of everything remaining utterly naked. Carriedo rapidly darts out past him, yanking his pants up._

" _Oye, Francis, wait! I didn't realize you two were –"_

 _Captain Bonnefoy rounds on him, a wild and murderous look in his eyes. "Maybe not, but Art –_ he _should have controlled_ himself _. I blame myself for trusting a man like him, he'll fuck anything that walks on two legs, and some things that don't." He makes a face. "Tell you what. I'll race you back to mainland Europe. If you get back first, Lovino can keep his head."_

 _This throws Carriedo into a wild panic. You know through experience, that there are few ways to throw men like this off balance. But frightening Carriedo into submission is easy when you threaten Lovino – and intend to follow through._

 _As Bonnefoy coolly boards his own ship, Carriedo throws his clothes on and frantically does the same. All the while, Arthur just stands there, staring at nothing. You continue on with your own work, and minding your own business… Or you pretend to. But your captain is more than your captain by now. You've been with this man for years, and feel close to him somehow. And you've never seen him like this._


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N:_**

 ** _1)_** **Sorry this came out a lot later than I'd intended! I am in the process of writing chapter 3 already (the final chapter!) so hopefully I'll see that out on time.**

 ** _2)_** ** _Elodie Bonnefoy_** **is Monaco,** ** _Noah Schmit_** **is Luxembourg,** ** _Bram Van den Berg_** **is Netherlands,** ** _Yekaterina/Katyusha_** **(dim.)** ** _Braginskaya_** **is Ukraine,** ** _Keophaxai Srivongrasa_** **is Laos**

 ** _3)_** **I sort of made up Laos's name. Um. Let me know if it sounds iffy if you have a Laotion background of some sort.**

 ** _4)_** **Fun fact: Arthur's snake's name is Amadeus, and he has white scales speckled with buttery yellow, and orange eyes. Amadeus is thick, and 8 feet long.**

 ** _5)_** **So in the beginning and end italics, from the past, I tried my hand at the way people used to speak English, a little thing called verb second (V2) form. It's the way all Germanic languages are structured, and the way that English used to be structured before English became a modern amalgamation of many languages.**

 **Ex:** ** _"then was the people of the great prosperity excessively partaking."_** **(direct translation)**

þa **wæs** þæt folc þæs micclan welan ungemetlice _brucende_

 ** _"Then the people were partaking excessively of the great prosperity."_**

 **This is indicative of not only Old and Middle English, but also Shakespearean English. Not gonna lie. It sounds a little like Yoda.**

 ** _6)_** **Playlist used to write this chapter:** ** _Ferrum Aeternum_** **by Ensiferum,** ** _Don't Trust Me_** **by 30H!3,** ** _Little Lion Man_** **by Mumford and Sons,** ** _Broken Crown_** **by Mumford and Sons,** ** _Wars of Faith_** **by Audiomachine,** ** _Alpha_** **by Adrian Von Ziegler,** ** _Winterspell_** **by Two Steps From Hell**

 ** _C/W:_** **There is an anti-Muslim slur, due to the time period of the italicized writing being during the Crusades. As this is the burning of Jeanne d'Arc, it's circa 1400. If historically based hate speech will make you uncomfortable, please do not read. (I say this but it's not really that bad, and it's like. Once. In the beginning.)**

* * *

 _All through the journey, the girl hasn't said a word. Hands bound, mouth gagged, she holds her head high as the line of horses continues its triumphant procession across the French countryside. Your leader is at the forefront. You resent him_ deeply _. You cannot get used to the idea of a child leading an entire army. You don't have his exact age but he cannot be more than thirteen. You were told to ask no questions (of course making you suspicious), and as you are sworn to the crown, the church, and to this horrid little boy riding before you, you loyally do as you are asked._

 _So far, the young Lord Kirkland has yet to lead anyone astray._

 _Up ahead, there is a village—an English stronghold. This is where you will burn the blaspheming bitch: right in the village square. Your blood rises hungrily with the thought of watching her writhe and scream in agony. Pity you won't be permitted to have a go at her before she dies. She's not displeasing to look at. But Lord Kirkland expressly commanded his soldiers that they should not lay a finger on the Maid of Orleans if their intents were less than saintly._

 _You stop by the well-used fire pit. It is already prepared for the burning, with a tall wooden stake at the center. You take a moment to smile and nod to your cohorts near the tents, acknowledging their preparation. You have no idea if the young lord does the same, or has the same thoughts, but you feel it right that these people be acknowledged by someone._

 _"Milords!" One of the sentries call suddenly, running down into the village. "Up the road's trouble! The French! Here they are for the bitch to take!"_

 _Lord Kirkland looks back finally, as unconcerned as you please, and he makes a waving off motion with his hand. "They lack numbers. We have many." He says. "To them go now. The other sentry take plus three soldiers, and to them go for their leader. Their identity you'll tell. They're not here for a battle, their numbers for certain this bespeak."_

 _Was this lord even taking into account that the entire village could be surrounded by now? You gape at him, disbelieving, but he gives you such as look that makes you want to soil your undergarments, so you glance away and do not question him._

 _He's not normal. You'll swear it on your father's sword._

 _You continue quietly prepping the maid for death, some soldiers lifting her off of the horse and others preparing to tie her to the pyre._

 _"Wait!" You hear a familiar voice, no small hint of desperation in it. "Please, please wait!" He shoves through soldiers until some catch him, holding him back. "Arthur!" He cries in desperation. This one is little more than a boy as well – though he appears a bit older than Lord Kirkland – clad in armor that looks like its seen better days, his long blond hair greasy and caked in dirt and blood._

 _Lord Kirkland turns around slowly, and with a wave of his hand, the men surrounding the other boy are gone. You sidle in close to the young lord. No matter what you might think of him personally, you are honor-bound to this boy, and the code of chivalry would not see him harmed._

 _"Arthur, please." The boy runs to Arthur, grabbing him by the shoulders with a fraught expression. One look from Arthur keeps your sword sheathed. "Please don't kill my maid. She is my God-given salvation! Please. Is this what you want—you want me to beg? I'll get down on my knees if that would—"_

 _A resounding smack echoed through the courtyard. Lord Kirkland had taken off his gauntlet to hit the boy… but you don't know why. He is French. An enemy. Wouldn't it be better to kill him and be done with it?_

 _"Francis." Your lord's voice is unexpectedly soft. "I cannot anything for you do. You will only so far get with me begging, and I cannot now anything for you do. Why I this take and do, know you, aye?"_

 _The boy scowls. "You think me slow, do you?"_

 _"No, but since you realize, you must know that there is nothing I can do."_

 _"No!" He fell to his knees, his expression a picture of perfect despair and hopelessness. "You can't…" He practically whispered. "She is innocent…_ Please! _"_

 _You can almost hear your little lord rolling his eyes. "If it indeed mattered what I thought…" He leaves it at that, and you think you can almost hear him make a soft growling sound. "Damn well you know I ascribe not to your…" He gestures vaguely over at your travelling monks in one of the tents before blowing out a frustrated huff of air. You wonder why the lord does not just speak plainly. But…_

 _But it cannot be. Is Lord Kirkland a heretic as well? Impossible! He fights so valiantly for the cause! So you've heard, at least… The stories of the way he slays the heretical followers of the false god Allah are rampant, but… Have you ever seen him draw a sword with your brothers?_

 _"What this woman does I care not. But the people differently feel, as my king does. And at war we still remain. Frankly, I know not why I must my breath waste so to my actions explain. Impossible to imagine, it is, that believed you actually my mind could sway."_

 _With each word the boy before your lord seems to shrink into the ground. "Thought I… Our past might to you mean something… Please… Nothing left do I have."_

 _"What?" Lord Kirkland narrows his eyes, almost imperceptibly. "What do you mean?"_

 _"For battle I was created, but despise it, I do. Not... Worthy I am not of my Roman descent."_

 _For an instant, you think Lord Kirkland's expression softens. It's possible, but if you'd blinked, it would have been missed. He spits on Francis. "Stand up. Your people you do shame." He growls, voice full of nothing but disdain. You decide you must have imagined that brief flash of hurt and pity. Those emotions simply could not be reserved for an enemy as eternal as the French._

 _Just like that, your lord turns swiftly on his heel, his armor gleaming in the bright sun of the afternoon. He unsheathes his sword, and raises it in the air like a battle commander. Everyone quiets and looks. "Burn her!" He practically screams, his boyish voice cracking just slightly. "The blasphemer burn! Of God she is not! Do you see not that of Lucifer she is? Burn her!"_

* * *

The darkness in the room was broken only by a tiny window above the altar. It faced the east, and the sun was already high in the sky. At least, Arthur suspected it was. It was too cloudy to tell. He carefully fanned the incense with a white eagle feather, and the smoke curled softly around the buttery yellow silk draped atop the altar. With a rowan wand – his first use of it since the Lunar New Year – he traced the symbols of _Neorth,_ the god of the wind and the sea, into stones of mica that were as thin as glass. With a whisper of a long lost language, he blew gently on the incense smoke, and finished the spell. He began carefully gathering up the used items to dispose of them properly.

"Artie, you're so creepy."

Dropping everything and barely muffling a scream, Arthur slammed his back against the wall next to the window, his chest heaving as he stared at Alfred. A huge, grey speckled Great Dane shoved past Alfred's legs and started snuffling loudly around the altar.

"Shit—fuck—you're not allowed—" He shooed the dog away from the altar, and Alfred scooped him up, draping him across his shoulders like the huge animal was but a lamb. "Christ Jesus's bollocks, why are you in my house?" Arthur cried.

The American frowned, obviously deeply disappointed in Arthur. "You can't even tell when I cross into your country?"

"You prick, that's not what I fuckin' –"

"I'm surprised you didn't hear Murdoc barking at the door. Anyway, shut up and clean up. I'm not just on a social call, ya know."

Arthur paused a moment, keeping his expression carefully blank. While he and Alfred had their quarrels, Arthur was rarely ever spoken to like _that_. Something was wrong. There was something Arthur was missing, here. He decided to prod a bit as he picked up his things once more.

"You never pay me a visit that _isn't_ somehow related to work, you ungrateful brat." He grumbled. "So enlighten me, yes? For what reason did you cross the pond, lad? Surely not to converse with someone as inconsequential as myself." He gave Alfred an ingratiating glance as he passed by into the hall.

He heard Alfred scoff behind him. "I fucking swear, Arthur. This is exactly why I never come see you; you always try to make me feel shitty for not visiting more! I have a job, too, ya know." Arthur could practically hear the whine in the boy's voice.

Arthur snorted, dumping his used instruments onto the table. "Yes, so you do."

"Why are you speaking so formally with me?"

Arthur turned briefly to Alfred, giving him an exasperated glance before turning back to the items on the table. "You said it yourself: this is no social call. It wouldn't do for me to be my lovely, charming self if we're to discuss business." His hands paused to gesture to his face, then body. "I'm not exactly dressed appropriately, you see, so my attitude will have to do." All of his piercings were intact, and without a shirt both his tattoos and his scars were all the more prominent. A pair of sweatpants slouching on too-slender hips didn't make things much better. To his point, he did not look at all prepared for a meeting.

"Arthur…" Alfred sighed, running a hand through his hair – a habit he'd picked up from Arthur, incidentally. "I mean, that's fine. I hope you know as long as we're not in a public setting I don't care how you look or act, so long as I can work with you… But _honestly_. You totally forgot about today, didn't you?"

Arthur didn't pause, and finished cleaning up and neatly disposing of the spell items. _What the fuck was today?_ "Aye, guess I did. Mind tellin' me what the fuck yer for, then?"

Alfred sighed again. "While your prime minister is over at my place, I was supposed to come over here and talk to you about some things. We can just do it here in your apartment, so it's fine… But do you at least have some documents together to review?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and padded over to his pantry. So that was what it was… He couldn't believe he'd forgotten. What had he been doing? He'd always been so good at keeping track of his schedule.

"Ale?"

"Ah, no thanks." The boy sounded distinctly uncomfortable. "I try not to drink on the job."

Arthur shrugged, ignoring the condemnation in Alfred's tone. "Suit yourself." He grabbed two anyway and his pack of cigarettes. "C'mon."

Alfred followed dutifully with Murdoc into the living room, and when the dog was placed on the ground, he took a seat on the couch next to Arthur, head on his lap. At the sight of the approaching American, Arthur's cat, Nixie, crouched low, hissing and spitting before finally darting out of the room in a bright blur of orange.

"Your cat hates me."

"She hates everyone equally. I can respect that." Arthur lit a cigarette with a tap of his finger, the end immediately glowing with a warm, orange light. Alfred blinked owlishly at the display, before shaking his head slightly and looking away. He was probably convincing himself he was seeing things, the poor boy.

"Uh. Before anything else…"

Alfred shifted around uncomfortably and Arthur huffed quietly. "Spit it out, lad."

"Well… I just—I'm not trying to police your behavior, okay?"

"Ye mean not like ya do with the rest of the world."

"Fuck you."

"Yer arse is to die for, but I don't bang the kids I raise."

Alfred snorted, unsuccessfully attempting to cover up a bright blush at the unexpected compliment, backhanded as it might have been. "Gilbert doesn't seem to have a problem with that."

Arthur's eyes narrowed dangerously into glowing green slits. "Don't utter a single breath against that man."

Alfred groaned, staring at the Brit incredulously. "Why are you so fucking—" he ceased speaking abruptly, as though something had just occurred to him, and took a deep breath, running fingers through his hair again. "Look." He said quietly. "That's not what I'm trying to talk to you about…"

"My day's wastin' away, Alfred."

"For fuck's –" He stood up, quickly pacing to the other side of the room and back once, then again, and stopping in front of Arthur. The Brit immediately stood, disliking the unequal ground and hating to feel like he was being looked down on. "You are so _difficult_ to talk to!" He sighed, looking away almost helplessly. "It wasn't always like this."

"Congratulations. I now treat ya like I treat everyone else." Which was an absolutely lie, and they both knew it. He might have a shitty attitude, but both knew Arthur cared deeply for the boy.

"Arthur, be serious! I'm worried about Francis."

 _That_ got Arthur's attention. He fell back into the couch with a weary sigh, and pull a hand through his hair.

"Sit down, lad." Alfred obeyed immediately, and Arthur took another long drag from his cigarette. Thoughts of the Frenchman had haunted him for the last month or so, since the _incident_ occurred.

"I saw you two, that night." Alfred admitted. Arthur nodded—he remembered that much. "Francis hasn't been the same since. I mean… I care about him, but Matt talks to him more. And he said that Francis is just kind of… listless. He's barely eating and is losing weight. And from what we can tell, we don't think he's sleeping." He sighed. "Mattie's pissed at you, bro. He totally blames you."

Arthur nodded slowly, staring at his black TV screen as he took a swig of ale. Francis wasn't _eating_? Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"I don't know what you did… but I think you need to fix it." Alfred continued, speaking slowly as though weighing each word on his tongue. "I know you two used to be… close? I think?"

"Whatever it was, we didn't talk about it."

"But I'm not wrong, am I?"

"… No." Arthur tiredly ran a hand through his hair again. "But Alfred, what do I do when where I stand with someone is not made clear? I think he just thought we were… I mean I wouldn't have minded that but he didn't _tell_ me…"

"Listen, it's fine that you like to have sex, okay? There's…." The boy cleared his throat. "There's nothing wrong with that."

Arthur cocked a grin. "What a bold statement for such a prude."

Alfred scowled, pushing on. "It's _fine_ , but just… you can't do that with Francis. You can't fuck him and leave him. He still loves you—I don't fucking know why, but he does. And you're… kind of a mess. Just… if you can't be with him, then please just try to fix this." Alfred was nearly pleading, and Arthur's smirk grew, though there was no humor in it.

"What a cheeky little shit. Now that you've offered yer piece on how I handle my personal life, shall we get on with the business end?"

Alfred rolled his eyes, clearly wanting nothing more than to leave. But, to his credit, he settled back further into the chair.

"Go gather what you need. I have my briefcase and laptop here."

Arthur bristled sharply at being told what to do, but nonetheless he gathered his things from his office and took them to the couch.

 **~xXxXxXx~**

 _"Arthur, please pick up your phone. I can't do this. I—I need to talk to you. Please. Are you happy? You've reduced me to begging for your attention. You've always seemed to enjoy when I grovel, you sick son of a bitch. Just—just fucking call me. Please."_

It was the third call of its kind, and Arthur set down his cell phone with a sigh. A huge ball python poked his head up on the bed, frightening Nixie off. The cat was wary of the animal, and rightfully so. He was large enough to eat the feline without a struggle.

Arthur gave a little motion with his fingers, and the snake responded, crawling up around him on the bed to allow the man's warmth to seep into him. As his fingers trailed over the soft, pale scales of the beast, Arthur admitted to himself, not for the first time, that he was being a coward. It's not that he _wanted_ to hurt Francis. He just…

All he could think about was the Frenchman's face when he saw Arthur with Antonio. His eyes went so wide for a moment and he looked so hurt, so betrayed and vulnerable. But the moment had passed in a split second.

He leaned back and opened his laptop to try and get some work done. Hopefully this would take his mind off things. He just wanted to pretend that he could avoid the issue forever. He knew this impossible, as he would have to confront Francis the next time they saw each other… which could very well be sooner than later. But for now… he could pretend. He could pretend that none of this mattered.

He didn't get much further than his inbox page, though, because someone was suddenly video calling him on Skype. His heart rocketed into his throat, and he was only able to calm down a bit when he read the caller's name: _Portuguese Republic._

With a sigh, he answered. The window revealed a male presumably sitting at a desk, with dark, mid-length hair tied back into a bun at his neck. He had dark, sun kissed and a gritty look about him, with a scruffy beard and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Arthur sighed again. "I fuckin' swear, Cristiano."

A smug, knowing smirk lifted a corner of the man's mouth. "You seem relieved, minha aliado **[1].** Expecting someone else?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "How many know?"

Cristiano spread his hands out with a helpless expression. "Everyone. You know how they all like to gossip."

Arthur leaned back, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "You're the worst gossip monger I know."

"Listen, criança **[2]** , we both know that you don't care about who knows. What you care about is that now that everyone knows, you have to do something about it. You can't just ignore it and pretend it never happened." Arthur opened his eyes again, and was almost surprised to find Cristiano frowning at him with open disapproval. "I am no friend to the French, but you have to remain honorable to your name." Arthur scoffed loudly and reached for his cigarettes. Seeing at Cristiano smoking was making him crave the nicotine. Like always, he was scolded loudly for smoking, the brunet saying how bad it was for him. Arthur just shook his head. He knew it was bad. It was just that he didn't care. "So ye care about my honor, now?" When Cristiano responded by averting his eyes and a light grimace, Arthur smirked. " _You_ care about it." "I am not an honorable man." "You _are_." Cristiano was giving him such an intense look, Arthur had to look away. He felt naked, somehow, like the man was looking deep into his soul. Well, they did say that eyes were windows to the soul or some dumb shit like that. "I know you are. You may be selfish, and you may not always do the right thing, but you are an _honorable man_. If nothing else, your pride would demand this of you." Gods, but he hated the reality checks Cristiano so often gave him.

"So… yer sayin' I should just… get it over with?"

"What you did was wrong, and you need to speak with the frog about it." It was the sort of condescending tone a parent would use, and Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"I didn't answer this call just to listen to ya scold me."

Cristiano shrugged, stubbing out his cigarette. "I'm a good friend to you. Ya know why?" Without waiting for an answer, he plowed on. "Because I fucking tell you what you need to hear. Not what you want to hear. And you're damned lucky to have me."

"So I hear." Arthur deadpanned. "At least once a week. _At least_."

"Hey." Cristiano was frowning lightly, reading something on his screen. "Are you going to Laos?"

"Aye… I think so. That's a G20 meeting, yeah?"

"Mhmm." He paused, doing something on his computer that Arthur wasn't aware of. Was he reading emails? There was a lot of clicking around. "You'll see him there… along with others. Since basically everyone knows, you're kind of fucked. I would watch out for Gilbert, if he rides along with Ludwig."

Arthur nodded. He knew a lot of people cared about Francis aside from himself, Matthew and Alfred. There was Feliciano, but Arthur didn't think the sweet, passive Italian would be a problem. If anything it was his brother that was the problem, but Lovino didn't exactly care for Francis. Other than that, there was Gilbert, Antonio, Elodie, Noah, Bram, Heracles, Yekaterina, and Ivan. He should probably keep an eye on the Russian, though he couldn't imagine him actually _acting_ in defense of Francis. Yekaterina, sweet thing that she was, was so mild-mannered he doubted he'd even get a glare from him. Heracles was a mere acquaintance, and Bram was too self-centered to want to defend Francis's honor… if that was what was going to happen. Fiery, confident Elodie would absolutely ream Arthur out the second she saw him, but he didn't think she would usually be at a G20 conference. Noah was too shy to confront Arthur, and again, would the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg even be at the G20? He doubted it. Gilbert would absolutely be a problem, but only if he came. And Antonio…

"Do you think Antonio will be trouble?"

"Absolutely." Cristiano nodded knowingly. "The hateful little bastard will take any chance he can to get in a swing at you. I would think though that he might not even be there, since he's not a permanent member of the G20, but… like I said."

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. Cristiano was right. It was more than likely the meeting would devolve into a fistfight between himself and the Spaniard.

"So even just for the sake of the meeting, and that of the host—"

"I know damn well ye don't care about Lao People's Democratic Republic."

"Why did you say his full country name?"

"It's easier than trying to remember and _pronounce_ his crazy ass personal name."

Cristiano rolled his eyes, and allowed the host's name to simply flow off of his tongue. "Keophaxai Srivongrasa."

"Aye, aye, you're _so_ talented."

"But seriously." Cristiano lit another cigarette, and glared when Arthur called him a hypocrite. "Just go in ready. And… before the conference, if you can… please just fucking talk to him."

"Who, Antonio?"

"No, stupid. Francis."

Arthur sighed. This was going to be difficult.

"If you can't manage that…" Cristiano took a deep drag as he sighed. "Just talk to him at the conference, I guess. And hope nobody gets in your way."

The Brit shifted uncomfortable. "I feel like this should be a conversation that happens face to face, though…"

"Then make it so. Listen, I have to go. Get all of your work done, okay? I know you'll be busy with that Brexit business and—"

"Yes, _mother_." Arthur growled, hanging up on him. He didn't need more lecturing from a fuckup like Cristiano.

He felt… empty, now. He wasn't sure what he should do next. It was only eight in the evening, and Arthur still had work to do, and emails to read. But he didn't feel like it. He didn't feel like doing anything. All he could think about was Francis. He owed it to the man to just fucking talk to him. But what would he say? What did he want from Francis? What would Francis want from him?

He wasn't sure if he could commit to a relationship again. The last time was incredibly painful… but had also been a human.

After a good ten minutes of deep thought that got him absolutely no where, Arthur ended up placing his snake back in his enclosure, and curled up in his bed. He could… he could just deal with this tomorrow.

* * *

 _There was nothing but a pile of ashes left. When the pyre was lit, five men had to restrain the young French soldier from dashing over and throwing himself on the flames. You were one of those men. You could not believe just how strong this little boy – hardly larger than Lord Kirkland – was. He lay face down in the dirt, now, lifeless and silent. Not even a sob escapes him. You think he probably screamed himself hoarse right along with the French whore, in a macabre duet of young woman and child. Really, that's what you think it was. His voice rose and fell in pitch and intensity right alongside the witch's, and it gave off an eerie songlike quality. You don't know if it bothered Lord Kirkland, but you think it probably did. He was very, very pale by the end of it, and was currently slow and shaky in every movement._

 _He walked slowly over to the boy, and knelt down; brushing surprisingly gentle fingers through scrubby blond hair a good few shades lighter than his own._

 _"Francis." You barely hear your boy-captain, but his voice is so sweet and soft, and you've never heard him speak to anyone like this. "Had to, I did. Know you that I had to."_

 _The other boy remains silent._

 _"On your feet." Your young lord commands, his voice loud and stern, though poorly disguising a timorous quality. You step closer, ready to be of use to your lord the moment he asks._

 _"Kill me." It is only because you came closer that you hear him. You recognize that tone of voice. It is someone who has given up hope, someone who has nothing left to live for. "My maid you did kill – so too you must my life take… if even a scrap of mercy you do have."_

 _And Arthur cannot hide his shock –and, is it truly,_ fear _?_

 _"I cannot." He murmurs sickly, and you come yet closer._

 _"Allow me, milord." You volunteer all too eagerly. A Frenchman handing himself over to you on a silver platter – with the whore of Orleans dead and gaining ground on the frogs, you could not have asked for a better day._

 _And why was your lord hesitating? The boy must be too green. Had he ever fought in a true battle before? You aren't sure that you've ever seen him do so. You aren't the only person who doubts the boy, either. He is too young, too small and weak. True, he is wiser than his years, but you and many of your cohorts have always had trouble reconciling the thought of a child as your better._

 _"No." Arthur commands you harshly. "No closer must you come." He gives you but a quick glance, and the wild look in his eyes has you floored – like he is a trapped animal. He gives the Frenchman a sharp kick in the side, but the merely rolls a bit over the ground – doesn't even attempt to defend himself._

 _"Get up!" He spits angrily._

 _"I cannot. So long have I been fighting… so long…" And you see a pang of sympathy in your lord's eyes, and the minutest of nods. You don't understand why they are suddenly speaking like the old men in the camp – the men who have been fighting and exterminating the caliphate and indeed, also the French, since before you were born._

 _"From me you have taken her…" The boy on the ground licks his dry, cracked lips. "Nothing have I been left with."_

 _"A stupid, selfish boy you are!" Lord Kirkland kicks him again. You wonder vaguely if the two have a personal vendetta against each other. Otherwise, you would sooner your lord just end it. "Would that this anything could solve! Nothing our deaths do fix! And where we started do we ever come." A hint of desperation creeps into Lord Kirkland's voice. It occurs to you to wonder if he hesitates because he has never killed before._

 _"I care not." The boy moans, covering his face with his hands. "Death only do I wish for. Please –_ please _, Arthur…"_

 _Lord Kirkland drops his façade of anger and he shakes his head wildly, desperation and fear showing clearly now. Slowly, the Frenchman stands, armor scraping against armor the loudest sound to your ears. He is a boy determined, that is for certain. You pull out your sword as he steps toe to toe with your lord, but one sharp glare is all you need to know to back down. You do not, however, sheathe your blade._

 _"Around you, look." Francis hisses. "Closely it is you are watched. For you your men wait, your actions to bespoke. Faith in you they have not. Nothing but a scrawny, mangy little rabbit do you seem to them. That image to improve, you have nothing done."_

 _You can see the hurt clearly on Lord Kirkland, but only for a moment. Slowly, his sharp green eyes sweep around the camp, and you believe it is at this moment he realizes how many people are waiting to see what he will do. You think they are not close enough to hear their fervent murmurs, and this is probably for the best. You think a better man than you would have already killed the both of them. It is not an honorable thought to have, nor is it properly chivalrous, but to most (yourself included), things like that matter not when glory is at stake._

 _And so, your lord is spurred on to move._

 _"Aware made I will be when you return." Lord Kirkland commands gruffly._

 _"My eagle shall I send you." The other boy replies with a wry smile._

 _The loud metallic sound of Lord Kirkland unsheathing his sword makes your ears ring. His face is stone, with none of the hesitation that you had seen earlier. He holds the sword with an almost lazy ease, as though he's been holding a sword all his life. Just from this you know now that he is experienced in dealing death. He grabs Francis's hair and exposes the boy's neck. He doesn't struggle, doesn't make a sound. Your entire encampment has been watching their strange interaction with rapt fascination, and now, you feel them all balancing on the edge of a knife._

 _Your lord raises his sword with one arm and holds it there steadily, and you hear intake of breath around you. That is a two handed greatsword, and it should not be possible for a skinny boy to calmly and surely hold it over his head with a single hand, let alone to lop someone's head off in one full swing. But there it is in front of you._

 _"Little rabbit, I am not," Lord Kirkland hisses, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "But a lion." He brings the sword down swiftly on the boy's neck, and severs it in one swing._

* * *

 ** _T/N:_**

 **[1] minha aliado – my friend/ally**

 **[2]** **criança – kid, child**


	3. Chapter 3

So I'm going to be taking my account down. This story, and everything else on my account, will be o AO3, so it's not like I'm leaving really. Remember, even as a guest you can r&r on AO3. I have never gotten a message that tells me my work is unfot for this site so I sort of just hoped I'd get lucky and no one would tell me to tone down the sex or whatever. But some fucking coward left a review as a guest that told me... well, you can just read it. It said that I was breaking the rules and I was in danger of this and that or blahblahblah. Anyway, I wanted to let everyone know. And any fic I haven't finished you can trust will be continued, though I'll be working on other things atm.

My AO3 account i [:] / / [/] users [/] Winter [underscore] Genisis [slash] profile

I only just started writing again and i don't want to lose you guys because of some scummy site's shitty rules!


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